


Lost and Found

by sciencebutch



Category: Doctor Who, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008), Thor (Movies)
Genre: "i dont need to write this au but ill do it anyway", M/M, and then youre 6k words deep, basically bruce is the doctor, bruce pretends as if he knows whats going on but really?, do you ever think, he doesnt, nothing is serious, on hiatus until i Feel Like Writing This Again, thats what happened here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-05-25 00:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14965163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencebutch/pseuds/sciencebutch
Summary: It isn't the Doctor's fault for getting stuck on Earth. It isn't the Doctor's fault that sometimes, on occasion, he turns into a big green rage monster.And it definitely isn't the Doctor's fault for falling in love with a certain god of thunder. Again.~(The Doctor Who AU that no one asked for but got anyway)





	1. in which the doctor misses his wide assortment of teas

**Author's Note:**

> i want you all to know that i havent seen doctor who in a good few years so none of this is accurate to that series. but guess what? this isn't about doctor who. this is about a sad science man falling in love with a joth god. so it doesnt matter  
> ~  
> i have a tenuous grasp on the english language bc im a dumbass. the tenses in this are all fucked up  
> ~  
> tw for suicide ment/suicidal thoughts (stay safe guys)

_“The TARDIS was leaking, which is a grievous calamity in itself, but it’s even more disastrous when one is gallivanting through time and space at accelerated speeds. High bursts of energy—gamma radiation, the readings said—escaped from the central pillar, which had cracked during a scuffle with a particularly ruthless Judoon. The whirring of the TARDIS was arrhythmic and high-pitched; a sign of distress. Alarms blared as the ship’s trajectory was thrown off course, and the room was bathed in a bright red light that put quite the strain on one’s eyes. The main hub was tilted sideways at a 20-degree angle, and papers and highly expensive artefacts he had never really found a place for flew about the room at very high and dangerous velocities._

_All in all, it was quite a chaotic occasion; just the Doctor’s average Friday night._

_The Doctor cursed as something_ else _began to beep obnoxiously--apparently from a notification that he had gotten the galactic equivalent to a speeding ticket (fortunately he was going fast enough that the galactic equivalent of a policeman couldn’t catch up to give it to him)--and he leaned over the dashboard to knock the offending machine with a wrench to shut it up. This proved to be a very bad idea for two reasons: firstly, he accidentally pressed a button that shifted the TARDIS into reverse, making it go backwards rather than forwards. Meaning that instead of going to Sovereign where allegedly everyone was golden (or so he’s heard), he travelled back to the planet he happened to be leaving: Earth--the one with humans, to be more specific. Secondly, as he balanced precariously over buttons and levers and odd switches that he still had yet to learn the function of, he entered the highly toxic and concentrated cloud of radiation that was steadily oozing from the pillar. The former was more of an inconvenience than anything else. The latter, on the other hand, caused something quite peculiar to occur, which would change the Doctor’s life forever._

 _A muffled_ crunch _reverberated throughout the main hub, accompanied by an abrupt halt that made the Doctor’s knees jolt and buckle and collapse beneath him. Papers fluttered to the ground, there was the sound of a ceramic pot shattering nearby, and a book fell on his back. He coughed as the wind was knocked out of him. Going by the sudden lack of jostling and overall tumult, the Doctor assumed that they had landed. A reasonable conclusion, if he does say so himself._

 _He stood up on wobbly legs and rubbed a sore spot on his arm from when_ A Tourist’s Guide to Contraxia _thwacked him rather hard in the shoulder. Failing to notice the golden mist beginning to surround him, he started towards the exit, stepping over shards of wood and glass and all sorts of metal alloys. He pushed the door open, in a not-at-all cautious manner._

_It wouldn’t budge. He pushed harder, using his shoulder as a battering ram, and it gave a bit. Grunting with frustration, he exerted all of his might, and took a running start towards the door. It flung open quite easily and for the second time in five minutes, the Doctor found himself sprawled out on the ground._

Cold _, was the first word that came to mind as he assessed his current situation. Then,_ cold _popped back into his head for a second time, because it really was quite frigid and his brain felt the need to emphasize that. The Doctor sat up, leaning on his hands which were quickly losing feeling, and concluded that the reason it was so cold was because he was laying in snow, and quite a lot of it, for that matter. He blinked to shake the ice off of his eyelashes, and dried his face with his sweatshirt._

_He stood to his feet (immediately sinking back down a foot into the snow), and observed his current location. There was snow, and more snow--oh look, there’s a dead shrub, finally some variety!-- and even more snow. Deciding that there was no adventure to be found in this wasteland, he promptly turned around on his heel (which was quickly getting damp; his worn sneakers were being held together by nothing but duct tape and prayer at this point), to repair the TARDIS, figure out his location, and maybe make a pot of tea._

_He stopped, however, when he noticed a speck of gold in his peripheral. He looked at it, and a blossom of dread bloomed in his stomach, making him nauseated and sick. Gold means bad times,_ very _bad times, because it usually means that the current body one inhabits is dying, and will soon erupt with concentrated energy and light that could rival that of a minor star collapsing in on itself. As he watched, frozen in horror, the speck grew into a mist, and then a cloud, until it surrounded and encased him wholly, and the Doctor could see or feel naught but the golden light as it reprogrammed his genetics and turned him inside out and pulled him apart piece by piece and then rebuilt him from nothing. In a way, it was therapeutic, and yet, in another way, it hurt like hell. Regrettably his vocal chords were currently mush in his throat, so he couldn’t scream. But he wanted to, very much._

_He vaguely recalled a spa somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy that had a treatment quite similar to this. It happened to involve a lot more face masks and a lot less pain, however, and was more preferable to his current situation by far._

_Sure, regeneration kept him alive, but at what cost?_

_The thing about the whole regeneration process is that it always seem to last for a very long time, and the Doctor just doesn’t appreciate that at all. At least he wasn’t cold; he hated the cold. He also hated being extremely hot (which he was, currently), but he hated being cold even more._

_His musings came to a halt when a speck of green, poisonous and sickly, popped into his peripheral, and he watched, disturbed and just a little scared, as the unnatural color multiplied and infected the gold._

_“Well this can’t be good,” he thought, staring as the green spread like a disease. He was not afraid to admit that this situation was at least a tad bit frightening. It was something unknown to him, something he had never learned or even heard about before, which unnerved him thoroughly. He wasn’t used to not knowing things._

_The Doctor grunted as the pain increased tenfold, and he crumpled to the ground, not sensing the frigidity of the snow, only the agony of the scalding green pumping through his veins. The feeling of being burned from the inside out overtook him, and he screamed into the ground, snow and debris falling into his mouth. His bones felt like they were shattering, cracking like a glacier, and his muscles stretched and heaved._

_It was quite painful, suffice to say. The Doctor believed it was the most painful thing that had ever happened to him. He wished for death--or unconsciousness, at the very least. His request was fulfilled when the green, deep and dark and unfeeling, encapsulated him and he sunk into the void. The Doctor was shackled to the back of his own mind, a prisoner trapped with no autonomy, as something monstrous and savage constricted around his head, forming a membrane that was apart of him but wasn’t him. He roared but_ he _didn’t roar, the sound loud and echoing. He jumped but_ he _didn’t jump, so high that he practically flew. He leaped and did not feel the cold air rustling through his hair and clothes, even though he knew it was cold. He was fettered to the back of his mind, lacking all control. A green film was over his vision, tainting the world with a poison monochrome…”_

“And that all happened three years ago,” the Doctor said with a sigh, looking at the stray dog that had managed to sneak its way into his tent. At first, he was angry--more so than usual, at least--because the animal had eaten some of his snacks while he was napping, but he never really was one to hold a grudge. A cheap lantern flickered dimly in the corner, almost as useless to him as it would be turned off. He should add batteries, but he couldn’t afford them, or the stuff the make them, so sue him.

...Don’t actually, he wouldn’t be able to afford that either.

“The problem is,” the Doctor mused to the dog, “my bank account was blown up with Gallifrey.”

And even if it wasn’t, and he had somehow managed to extract his currency among the chaos, it wouldn’t be worth anything. That’s the problem with being the remaining relic of a civilization; not only do you lose everything and everyone you love, you lose your assets, as well. Admittedly, the Doctor would rather dwell on the latter rather than the former.

The dog’s fur was matted and gross as he ran his fingers through it, but petting it gave him something to do with his hands. His new body was fidgety, always moving in some form or another. He paused briefly when he noticed a tick in the tangled hair, but he casually flicked it off and continued petting. Germs never really bothered him before the Incident, and they sure as hell didn’t bother him now. Getting sick and dying was on his to-do list, actually, right after the bullet point saying: “ _figure out_ how _to get sick and die_ ”. Getting sick and _not_ dying and letting the Other Guy take over, however, was not on his to-do list at all.

His stomach rumbled, and the dog raised its head and gave him a look. The Doctor didn’t understand the nuances of facial expressions in canines, so he couldn’t exactly interpret it with any degree of accuracy. But if he had to guess, it would either mean “ _sorry for eating your snacks”_ , or,  “ _make your stomach be quiet, I’m resting.”_

The Doctor huffed, and nudged the dog out of his lap. A cloud of dust rose in the air as he patted it’s fur, and some got in his eyes. He was used to it; sand and dust and other miniscule particles entering body parts was an occupational hazard when living in a desert. He unzipped the tent flap, tugging on the zipper when it got stuck on the fabric, stepped outside, and began to walk towards the market district of Calcutta. The dog bolted in the opposite direction. He waved farewell absentmindedly, and began the trek. Sure, maybe living in a tent a mile away from anything close to civilization was turning him into a recluse who tells his entire life story to dogs, but that was a risk he was willing to take. Better than the Other Guy raising his body count, at least.

The Doctor sighed dejectedly. He missed his TARDIS and being able to fly wherever he wants whenever he wants (with absolutely _no_ sand, unless he’s in that kind of mood), he missedhis wide assortment of alien teas. He also missed being able to walk by any military personnel and not have to obscure his face. He missed a lot of things, as is typical for penniless vagabonds who are actively avoiding the American Army.

Damn the Other Guy. He ruined green for the Doctor, _green._ Sure, he also ruined a lot of other things for the Doctor, but it’s best not to brood over negative things. Well, more negative things, as it were.

But that was the problem with morphing into a larger, greener, and stupider humanoid immediately after crash landing in a snowy wasteland: you wake up and have not even a hint of a clue where your spaceship could be--and without your sonic screwdriver, as well! It’s been three years, and the Doctor is pretty sure he left the oven on in the seventh kitchen in the TARDIS. Another significant issue about turning into the Other Guy is being pursued by a ruthless and _slightly_ maniacal General with an atrocious mustache.

Like, sure, he was an alien, but he’d _been_ to Area 51, and it wasn’t exactly a five star hotel. He’d rather not live there for _any_ amount of time. He’d also been experimented on before.

The Doctor shuddered. He’d rather not have a repeat incident of that, thank you very much.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, thumbing the key that he kept on his person at all times. It was his only hope of leaving Earth, of returning to space, and to all of his precious teas. It was the key to the TARDIS. Out of this whole trainwreck of a situation he found himself in, at least he could be grateful for the Other Guy recognizing how important the key was.

A cacophony of noise greeted his ears as he approached the city, an orchestra of merchants selling their wares, people haggling, laughter, yelling, clanking, clapping, and basically any other onamonapias usually associated with a busy street.

This was the best thing about Earth, the culture and diversity. In any other circumstance, the Doctor would be revelling in it. But alas, he was a fugitive, and that did put a damper on things.

He glanced wistfully at the stand that was selling tea, and started when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. The Doctor turned about a little _too_ quickly (damn paranoia), and looked at the woman who had pulled him out of his reverie. She was gaunt, eyes worn from sleepless nights and stress.

“Excuse me, are you the Doctor?” she asked, desperation crawling its way into her voice.

“Yes, I am,” he replied, giving her a gentle smile.

“Can you help me?”

The Doctor gestured for her to lead the way.

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing here? Get out! You shouldn’t be here!”

“I have to see the Doctor! It’s my father!” At that, the Doctor turned away from washing his hands, and brought his attention to the distraught child. Tears were in her eyes, money gripped tightly in her palms. Sympathy, hot and fast, jolted through him. He had always had a soft spot for children.

“Calm down, what’s wrong?” He briefly thanked the TARDIS, wherever she was, for translating the Bengali into Gallifreyan. Sure, it’d  been centuries since his home planet was destroyed, and he should probably bother learning another language, but why do that, when your spaceship does the work for you?

“My father…” her sentence hungs in the air as she gazed at the sick people on the floor. The Doctor understood what was  wrong immediately.

“Is he like them?”

Money, wrinkled and grimy, was held in his direction. “Please.”

 

* * *

 

Describing the structure they were heading towards as a ‘house’ was using the word quite liberally. It was run down, lopsided, and slanted ten degrees to the left. Still, it was better than the Doctor’s current living conditions, which consisted of a polyester tent that had a few holes, a worm-eaten sleeping bag, and the aforementioned useless lantern.

It was nice to see that the Doctor had lost all of his standards in the span of three years.

A jeep, driven by the military, drove past. He ducked his head, obscuring any view of his features from them. The government was a real pain in his ass.

The girl entered the house, and the Doctor followed. The girl ran through a doorway into what appeared to be a bedroom, and the Doctor began to follow. The girl vaulted through an open window, and the Doctor did not follow. He sighed.

He’s been had.

“Should have got paid up front, Doctor,” he remarked to himself. He lamented the loss of the money, for he really could have used it. He could have bought some tea, or another purple shirt--this body looked _really good_ in purple--or maybe some phuchka, or batteries, or--

There was movement behind him. He turned slowly, because he was dramatic like that. A woman with fiery red hair, cropped close to the chin, gazed evenly at him. She was wearing a skintight black jumpsuit.  He stared back, just as--if not more--evenly. His scrutiny on her intensified. Did he know her from somewhere? She looked quite alike a nice barista at a New New New Starbucks in New New York. (He still insisted on calling it New New New New New New New New New New New New New New New New York, but for the sake of brevity, just two ‘new’s will do). He officially decided that he did not know her from somewhere else.

“You know, for a man who’s supposed to be avoiding stress, you picked a hell of a place to settle.” her voice was low and just slightly sultry.

“Avoiding stress isn’t the secret,” and it wasn’t. If it was, he would be in huge trouble, because he can’t remember the last time he wasn’t stressed in the past three years. Or the past century, for that matter.

He should really consider going back to that spa in the Andromeda Galaxy.

“Then what is it? Yoga?” Why were they still talking about this? Why is she here? Who is she? Is she really that barista?

“You brought me to the edge of the city, smart,” he began. He spoke slowly, focussed on other things (like what he would have used the money for), “I uh...assume the whole place is surrounded?” The Doctor preferred to keep his list of casualties low--well, low for him. He assumed the outcome of this situation was going to be the Other Guy coming out and making a mess of things, as he tended to do.

“Just you and me.” The Doctor huffed. _Sure_.

And just because it was kind of concerning him, just a bit, he asked “and your actress buddy, is she a spy too? Do they start that young?” he was really going off on a limb that Ms. Redhead in front of him was a spy, but he did have proof to back up his hypothesis. Firstly, she was wearing all black, and… that’s pretty much it, actually. He’s pretty sure Earth spies wear black. Maybe she’s just goth. Was that stereotyping? He hopes not.

“I did.” she replied. So he was right! Excellent.

Finally, he asked: “Who are you?” because _now_ he was interested in this woman; he had only met a handful of spies in his life, they were usually too clandestine to talk to him.

“Natasha Romanoff.” The Doctor’s face almost split into a grin--Natasha Romanoff, what a name! Superb choice for a spy, if he did say so himself.

He sobered when he remembered why she was probably here in the first place. “Are you here to kill me, Ms Romanoff?” _damn,_ he thought, _what a cool name,_ “Because that’s not going to work out for everyone.”

Romanoff didn’t even bother looking affronted, her face remaining stone cold, as always. “No. No, of course not. I’m here on behalf of SHIELD.”

Ah, SHIELD; the Torchwood of America. “SHIELD. How did they find me?”

“We never lost you, doctor. We've kept our distance, even helped keep some other interested parties off your scent.” He hardly believed that, but whatever.

“Why?”

“Nick Fury,” _who?_ “Seems to trust you,” _why?_ “But now I need you to come in.” _‘come in’? Come in where?_ He acted as if he knew what the hell she was talking about. That was usually how he got through confusing situations.

“What if I said no?” the Doctor wasn’t overly fond of meeting someone who called themselves “Furry”, or whatever Romanoff said.

“I’ll persuade you,” her voice suddenly became so seductive he got whiplash. _Ha, good luck with that, Romanoff, but I’m gay._

“And what if the...Other Guy says no?”

“You’ve been more than a year without an incident.” She was right, not like he was counting (he was), “I don’t think you want to break that streak.”

Alright. The Doctor knew when he was being manipulated.

“I don’t always get what I want.” He said, sadness creeping into his voice as he thought of his tea cabinet on the TARDIS.

“Doctor, we’re facing a potential global catastrophe,” she began, before the Doctor cut her off.

“Well, those I actively try to avoid,” that was a total lie, a complete and utter fib. But he really didn’t want to go.

“This is the tesseract. It has the potential energy to wipe out entire planet” She pulled out her phone (God, it looked primitive,) and showed him a blurry blue screen. He put his glasses on, and the blurry blue screen became a picture of an electric blue cube. Cubes were inherently evil shapes, not like, say, a sphere, or a rectangular prism. In any case, an artifact with that much power should not be in the hands of humans.

“What does Fury,” was that right? Fury? Furry? Whatever, “want me to do? Swallow it?”

“Well, he wants you to find it,” she says, “It’s been taken.” _Of course._ “It emits a gamma signature that’s too weak for us to trace.” _Of course._ “There’s no one that knows gamma radiation like you do.” _correct._ “If there was, that’s where I’d be.” That answered most of his questions, save one:

“So Fury isn’t after the monster?”

“Not that he’s told me.”

“And he tells you everything?”

She seems uncomfortable with his line of questioning. “Talk to Fury, he needs you on this.”

He scoffs, “He needs me in a cage?” He’s suspicious of any government organization, so what? He has every right to be. The Doctor has been locked in many a cage before. Some of them were _wood_. He shudders at that thought.  

“No one’s gonna put you in a--”

Hm… what if…

“STOP LYING TO ME.” The experiment was crude, but he needed to see what she would do.

Observations:

-Romanoff is fast

-Romanoff has a gun

-Romanoff appears scared

-The situation is very tense and uncomfortable

He smiles, mentally scribbling down data, “I’m sorry, that was mean. I just wanted to see what you would do. Why don't we do this the easy way, where you don't use that, and the other guy doesn't make a mess? Okay? Natasha…” The gun in front of his face really was starting to annoy him. He hated guns.

Natasha brings her hand to her ear. “Stand down, we’re good here.”

Conclusions: 

-Romanoff seems to be frightened of the Other Guy

-This house is surrounded

…

“Just you and me?”


	2. In which the Doctor is reminded of someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (also in which i basically just copy and paste the dialogue from the avengers 2012 script)  
> (marvel don't sue me i'm sorry im just uncreative)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a mess and idk where im going with this fic but i figured i might as well post the rest of the shit i wrote lmao

The flight to the helicarrier was slow and tedious. It was in moments like this that made the Doctor long for his TARDIS more so than usual. Sure, the ocean was cool and all, but looking at it for hours on end does get tiresome.  
Finally, they landed, and the Doctor was the first to get off. Sitting down while flying was so dull; who wouldn’t want to get thrown around a room while zipping through a wormhole? That was his preferred method of travel. In any case, the people chalked it up to nerves, assuming that the Doctor was just an anxious mess of a person, or, well, alien, but they don’t know that. And yeah, they were right, but flying didn’t make him nervous. Just bored, very very bored. He fidgeted with his hands as he tried to avoid all of the employees and pilots marching past him.  
“Dr. Banner?” Banner? Who is--oh right, that’s the name he goes by on Earth. People usually referred to him as other things, such as Doctor (which he did prefer, considering it was his name), monster, freak, green bean--now that one was quite weird, but admittedly better than the first two he had listed off.  
A muscular man loomed over him, blond hair cut short and close to his head. He holds his hand out for the Doctor to shake. The Doctor shakes it, as proper etiquette dictates one should do. And suddenly, with one touch, the Doctor could see the river of this man’s time spread out in front of him. It was blank for a few decades, and he frowned in confusion. Odd. He vaguely remembers hearing one of the pilots talk about him on the flight to the helicarrier. What was his name again? Lieutenant America? Colonel America? Captain America? Yeah, that sounded right. He was too preoccupied with remembering the man’s name (that wasn’t his real name, was it?) that he wasn’t too concentrated on speaking. Consequently, he stuttered over his words.  
“Oh uh, yeah. Hi,” real smooth, Doctor, “they told me you would be coming.”  
“Word is you can find the cube.” ugh, cubes. They still made him uneasy. He had a bad run in with a species of cube-people a while back. It was horrible.  
“Is that the only word on me?”  
“Only word I care about.” the Doctor snorted, yeah right. Still, it was a nice sentiment.  
Changing the topic, he engaged Captain America in some small talk.  
“Must be strange for you, all of this.” He gestured to the groups of people running past him in uniform. It sure as hell was weird for him, considering he had been trying to avoid all of this for the past three years.  
“Well, this is actually kinda familiar.”  
Suddenly, Romanoff appeared from behind him (how is she so quiet? It must be a spy thing…), and told them that they should move indoors.  
“It’s gonna get a little hard to breathe.”  
Steve voiced his thoughts. “Is this a submarine?” The Doctor chuckled.  
“Really? They want me in a submerged pressurized metal container?” Bad idea, SHIELD, real bad idea. Pressurized wooden boxes flying through space he could handle, but this? He had limits, damnit.  
Four vortexes sprung up in the water as propellers emerged from the vehicle. The helicarrier jolted as they lifted up from the water.  
“Oh no, this is much worse.”

 

* * *

  
“Gentlemen.” An intimidating man with an eyepatch stood in front of the Doctor and Captain America. He holds out his hand. The Doctor reluctantly shakes it. Is this Fury? He assumes it is.  
“Doctor, thank you for coming.” He said, face stoic. The Doctor smirked sardonically.  
“Thanks for asking nicely.” he glanced around, observing the SHIELD personnel typing furiously on laptops, probably looking for the Tesseract and--oh hey, that guy’s playing Galaga. “So uh... how long am I staying?” not too long, the Doctor hopes. Government organizations had a nasty habit of making him feel like a prisoner.  
“Once we get out hands on the Tesseract, you’re in the clear.” The Doctor nodded absentmindedly.  
“Uh-huh… and where are you with that?” he questioned.  
“We’re sweeping every wirelessly accessible camera on the planet,” A new voice butt into the conversation. Woah, where did that guy come from? The Doctor spun sharply around to look at him. He had a wide forehead and sharp eyes. Spies, man. Crazy. He decided that they were too quiet for his liking. “Cell Phones, laptops. If it’s connected to a satellite, it’s eyes and ears for us.”  
“That’s still not gonna find them in time.” Natasha noted from behind him, and the Doctor twirled around to look at her. Them? The Doctor thought that he was looking for a cube. Are there people in the cube?  
“You have to narrow the field. How many spectrometers do you have access to?” If he had his TARDIS (ah, if only, if only…) he would be able to find the cube in a snap. Unfortunately, he’d have to resort to the harder route. Oh well, nothing he hasn’t done before.  
“How many are there?” Fury asked. The Doctor chuckled. Cute.  
“Call every lab you know, tell them to put the spectrometers on the roof and calibrate them for gamma rays. I'll rough out a tracking algorithm based on cluster recognition. At least we could rule out a few places.” Easy-peasy. “Do you have somewhere for me to work?” And suddenly he felt in charge again, felt in control for the first time in years. He twiddled his thumbs together as he talked, speech fast and complex and excited.  
Ah, he missed this. He missed everything not being so goddamn complex all the time, missed being able to captivate an entire room.  
Fury tells Romanoff to lead him to a lab, and the Doctor follows.  
“You’re gonna love it, Doc. We got all the toys.”  
The Doctor wishes that were true.

 

* * *

  
He sets up the algorithm in five minutes. (It would have taken him two if he had access to better equipment). Now all he had to do was wait for a signal, which, again, would occur much sooner if the equipment was more sophisticated. Whatever, he’s seen worse, used worse. Now he had all the free time in the world, to do whatever he wanted, in a state-of-the-arts lab. He sat for a few minutes, pondering the fluidity of time and the vastness of space, and how he desperately wants to experience all of that again, before an idea struck him like lightning. He sat up abruptly, and some papers drifted to the floor, disturbed by his sudden movement.  
 _If I’m going to do this… I need parts, and some titanium, and maybe just a smidgen of_ vibranium _\--has Wakanda gone public yet? Hmm…_  
The Doctor stood up and started rummaging around in drawers with extreme intensity. He held a piece of metal up to the light and scrutinized it, turning it this way and that. Yeah, that should work--  
Oh. Who is that?  
Outside of the lab window, the Doctor spotted a weasely looking man, hair slicked back with an absurd amount of grease, not that the Doctor knows much about that sort of thing. The man wore a lot of green, and three years ago, the Doctor would have appreciated it. Now, well, green was ruined, thanks to the Other Guy. His glare was particularly unsettling, especially when paired with a smirk that looked very heinous and dastardly. All of this, the glare, the smirk, the grease, was all directing entirely unto the Doctor, who did naught but stare back at the weasel-man. He looked quite familiar…  
Oh well, there will be time to ponder that later. The weasel-man slinked past the last window and out of sight. The Doctor went back to examining the piece of metal. He tasted it, and his face broke out in a grin. Titanium, perfect.  
It took him half an hour to construct a new sonic screwdriver. Well, most of it; it was missing the main conductor for the circuitry in the modified arc reactor within it. He needed a touch of vibranium. Sure, it was rare, but there had to be some in the aircraft of a top-secret government organization, right? Looking around the room, he noticed that in his engineering-induced haze, he had essentially turned every drawer upside down, knocking its contents to the floor in a rather large mess. Whoops. Unless there was a secret compartment somewhere, there’s probably no vibranium to be found in the lab, as it appears as if there was nowhere left to look. Unfortunate. Seems as if he will have to look elsewhere.  
Leaving the lab was easy, moving around the helicarrier, however, was surprisingly just as easy. Everyone tended to stay out of his way (imagine that, people want to move away from the man who is essentially a ticking time bomb, and could explode into a big green rage monster at any moment), as he steered himself to the hangar. He was intercepted by Captain America, who gave him a sheepish smile, and told him that he was needed in the briefing room. The Doctor sighed, and allowed him to lead the way.  
The sounds of talking, slow, with a threat behind every word, became ever louder as the Doctor and Captain America walked towards the briefing room. They entered it, and the Doctor stood behind a chair, focussing all of his attention to the scene on the screen of the video feed. He hardly spared anyone else in the room a glance.  
The weasel-man (who still looked very, very familiar) was standing in a cage. It was circular, walls entirely made out of glass. Fury stood across from him, peering in at him with his one eye.  
“It’s an impressive cage. Not built, I think, for me.”  
“Built for something a lot stronger than you.”  
“Oh, I’ve heard.”  
Weasel-man looked directly into the camera then, and the Doctor could have sworn that he was staring straight into his soul. He shuddered.  
“The mindless beast, makes play he’s still a man,” Well, that’s just rude, “How desperate are you, to call upon such lost creatures to defend you?” The Doctor smirked. Oh, Weasel-man had no idea how desperate he was. He rubbed his hand on the key he kept in his pocket, reminiscing of better and more adventurous times.  
“Well, let me know if real power wants a magazine or something.”  
The room fell silent along with the surveillance tape. No one said a word. It was tense and completely awkward. The Doctor decided to speak, just to break the silence, if anything.  
“He really grows on you, doesn’t he?” That seemed to snap everyone out of their reverie, for Captain America began talking. Serious, as always.  
“Loki’s gonna drag this out. So, Thor, what’s his play?”  
The Doctor froze. Thor?! His head swivelled so fast on his neck that he got vertigo, searching for the head of long, golden hair.  
And lo and behold, there he was. Thor. Thor, the alien prince. Thor, the god of thunder. Thor, his lover--well, for a while, at least. The god in question was speaking, but the Doctor heard not a word. He was worlds away, eons away, lost in his memories of his time in the city of gold, in the city of Asgard...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i KNOW it was a cliffhanger but i'm probably not going to update this again unless it gets a larger following? idk

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr!


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